Broken Hopeful Dialectics of Marriage

This is the language that speaks us.

What language?
What language speaks us?

We are where we do not speak.
We do not speak here.

What is the name of the missing thing?
What name do we miss?

A language binds us,
inscribes us from birth.

What end of the egg,
thin or fat,
do we crack first?

No one can tell us
how to suck this egg.

Where are we going?

It remains to be conceived,
what steps down what corridors.

What do we call this dance,

this undertaking of grammar
that cuts our knees from under us?

Ha!

How well we sing
these fallen grammars of love.

You Will Let Go

You could just hand me

my compass, this roof-iced,

house-empty day.

You could ignore unmeasured clouds

that breathe such lifeless latitudes,
such godforsaken platitudes.

We read the Bible

your father gave you

twenty years ago.

We read all the books

prophets and apostles never wrote,

all the stories they said

they said.

We make love to the Old Testament,

ravish the words of David’s Psalms of Praises,

kiss-lick his gut-punch love songs.

Way beyond these clouds,
stars are blue frost,
feather-thin snowflakes.

The stars ignore the day.

This is a story
that day won’t give morning
any time soon,

is what you want
to but never will
say.

This is a story that day tells.

Your snow-touched thoughts

and three spring-pressed Maple leaves

mark the Song of Songs for me.

Another Poem About Chrysanthemums

No, I will not smoke

your cigarettes.

I won’t drink your wine

when you’re dancing drunk,

head-bowed about the room.

You kiss the rising Pleiades

and hug Arcturus going down.

You are like Simon living on a marble pillar,

casting soddy judgments on emperors and plebeians alike.

How powerful a man is

who demands his 

hat and single pinch of salt

but forswears a lover's touch.

At our place, peace reigns,

peace and a quiet song. 

All the rain-littered birds

raise placid eyes to you.